


wish i was never born

by notquitepunkrock



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Do not take that tag lightly that's all this is, Ironically, Self-Harm, Whump, at 5am, just not The bathroom, literallt this fic is and will only be me venting via michael, michael is in a bathroom, rip my sleep schedule, the self harm is pretty damn explicit, vent fic, written while i was dissociating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15701319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquitepunkrock/pseuds/notquitepunkrock
Summary: michael has a bad night





	wish i was never born

**Author's Note:**

> IN CASE YOU DID NOT HEED THE TAGS THIS FIC IS 100% JUST ME VENTING AND ABOUT MICHAEL SELF-HARMING. DON'T READ IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY THAT. PLEASE. THANK YOU.
> 
>  
> 
> wow my first bmc fic and its pure angst why am i like this  
> i'm not trying to romanticize this in anyway, i just needed to get it out thanks

Michael’s shaky hands gripped the front of his best friend’s shirt. He tried to focus on Jeremy’s breathing, on the soft inhales and exhales that proved he was alive. He was real.

It wasn’t working

He slipped out of bed carefully, padding across the room and out the door as silently as he could. It was a quick walk down hallway to the bathroom, one that Michael could have made in his sleep. But he wasn’t sleeping, and that was the entire problem.

Michael closed and locked the bathroom door behind himself, leaning his forehead against the cool wood for just a moment before he turned back to the medicine cabinet. He dug through the pill bottles, random unused body washes, and soaps filling the cabinet for just a moment until his hands wrapped around a particular box of refill razor head that were left behind from when his uncle stayed for a month when he was thirteen. The box itself was mostly full, only missing a couple of razor heads in the pack of six, but he didn’t care about that. 

There, at the bottom, was a wad of tissue paper that he fished out with practiced ease. It only took a few seconds to unwrap it, letting the silver blades inside fall onto the closed lid of the toilet. 

His hands were shaking harder than before as he carefully set the box on the back of the sink. He dropped down to the floor, staring at the blades in front of him. 

They were small, shining silver in the shitty florescent lighting in his bathroom. One of them was clearly duller than the others, but the rest were still sharp as they had been when they were brand new. He’d freed them ages ago from one of the abandoned razor heads, hid them away with the knowledge that his moms would never go through his medicine cabinet when they had their own. 

Hiding the blades was the easy part. Using them was only slightly harder. The hardest part was hiding the scars they left behind. 

Michael picked one of the blades up, one that was shiny and sharp and never used. He stared hard at it. 

A part of him, the part that sounded suspiciously like Jeremy, screamed at him to stop right now. Put the blade down, flush it in the toilet or down the drain or throw it away, and return to bed. Maybe wake Jeremy himself up for a late night gaming sesh where he would pointedly not talk about his feelings and get really high instead.

The part of Michael that itched beneath his skin, made his skin feel too tight to his bones, the part that floated on air above his body, yelled louder. 

He pulled down his left weed-patterned sock and pressed the blade against the skin on the inside of his ankle. No one would ever look at his ankle - his arms were covered in scars that he hid with a jacket and bracelets, his sides and hips and very much the same, but those were places that were suspected. Jeremy had  _ seen _ those scars, had even asked about them, once. Michael had purposely made them look long and random, like cat’s scratches for months after that line of questioning. He wasn’t going to risk that again.

As long as he never took off his socks he was fine, and, well. Michael never took off his socks. 

The first cut made him hiss. It had been a while since he’d used a fresh blade. This one slid more easily through his skin than he was used to, especially since the skin was thin and unscarred, unlike his wrist. The blood welled up quickly in the cut left behind, forming big, ruby droplets that were almost fascinating to watch. Michael made another cut directly above the first, perfectly parallel. The sweet sting of metal cutting through his skin was both awful and relieving. 

He dropped his head forward, resting it against the lid of the toilet. God, he was pathetic.

What would Jeremy think? He’d hate him, he’d probably think he was a freak and never talk to him again, just like in junior year when that stupid computer took him away, he’d just pretend like nothing had ever happened, he’d-

Michael cut himself off before he could work up to a full on panic by making a third, more frantic, cut above the other two. The blood was now running down his ankle, over his heel, towards the floor. He stopped it with a piece of toilet paper before it could go any farther, and carefully wiped away the rest of the blood. 

The first two cuts, which hadn’t been particularly deep, were already starting to slow in their bleeding. Michael held another piece of toilet paper over all three and crawled over to the cupboard under the sink. He rooted around until he found the box of bandaids, carefully laying one fat one over the bottom two. 

The third was much deeper. Every time Michael moved his ankle, he felt it twinge painfully. He kept sopping up the blood until he was able to locate some butterfly strips in the very back of the cupboard. It was difficult to get them on and clean up blood himself, but he was satisfied with the end result. 

Michael carefully pulled his sock back onto his foot, pulling it as high as it could go. He dropped the bloody toilet paper into the toilet, wrapped the blades back up and hid them in their box, and put everything away. After flushing the toilet, he slowly pulled the door open again and crept back into his room.

His hands weren’t shaking anymore. He felt like he was back in his body. As he slid back into bed beside Jeremy, his ankle stung sharply, but that was good. That was just a reminder.

“Micah?” Jeremy’s voice was rough and slurred with sleep, and he squinted blearily into the dark room. “Where’d’ou go?”

Michael let him wrap his arm around his waist again, pressing his forehead to his best friend’s chest. “Bathroom, Jer,” he said, feeling mildly guilty, but it wasn’t a total lie. “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.” Jeremy hummed, and within seconds he was breathing deeply as if he’d never woken up. 

He’d tell him. Eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> if you feel like this please talk to someone, and get help. it's not worth it, i promise you
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Lifeline  
> Call 1-800-273-8255


End file.
